It did my evil little heart good to get outside in the garden today.
I hadn’t attended to any of the leaves until today because of the cataract surgery. When one lives in a forest, this is, perhaps, not a good idea. I am not exaggerating – I had fallen, unraked leaves that accumulated on their own into 1’ and 2’ piles in the fenced area of the garden.
I did a lot in the garden this past spring. Doug was recently discharged from the hospital and not well enough to be left alone for several weeks. That time period coincided with a streak of beyond-gorgeous weather that makes a body’s heart hurt.
I’m reading a book by Julia Keller titled A Killing in the Hills that is set in West Virginia. I’m not very far into the book, but she astounded me on pages 27-28 with her description of an Appalachia spring. I’ve spent years trying to develop a concise, accurate description that could be conveyed in writing without accompanying photographs.
Keller wrote:
It was a beautiful place, especially in the late spring and throughout the long summer, when the hawks wrote slow, wordless stories across the pale blue parchment of the sky, when the tree-lined valleys exploded in a green so vivid and yet so predictable that it was like a hallelujah shout at a tent revival. You always knew it was coming, but it could still knock you clean off your feet.
Imagine if you will that the acres surrounding my barn exploded into a lengthy mountain music version of the Hallelujah chorus. That was this past spring. Imagine now, piles of leaves waist high being mulched with a lawn mower. Can you hear the closing strains of those Hallelujahs as they shelter the plants for the winter under a blanket of leaf mulch. Yes, the wheel turns.
Gardening and writing keep me sane. Last spring, my sanity was hanging by a thread. Some would argue the thread broke. That stretch of spring, with its soaring melody, kept me grounded. Since Doug slept a lot, I spent a lot of time outside – often working by lantern light.
My long-time readers know that my garden is a work in progress – one that began with acres of packed gravel inches deep in unblastable clay. In the beginning, to plant a daffodil required a pick axe and sometimes an auger. After 22 years or so of waging battle against bad dirt, I was sure this year was going to be The Year My Garden Landed on the Cover of Southern Living.
During the 2013 Garden Palooza
By my standards, I poured a ton of money into the ground out back. I painted lawn furniture, bought new cushions, planted a dozen or so shrubs and bushes, and planted flats and flats of petunias and impatiens. I babied a patch of Irish moss, let lavender roam free, and lost all sense of prudence when I bought the fountain and the super-duper-big planter to hold a tropical, vining plant. This was going to be the year.
And then the rains came. The news described them as “scattered storms.” Every one of those scattered storms stalled over the top of my piece of heaven and monsooned. I joked and quipped and carried on about building a lotus pond combo moat to try and keep my barn from sliding off its foundation in a mudslide.
I measured daily rains in inches. Really. If memory serves, we had one of the wettest Mays and Junes of all time and I got more of those scattered storms than most.
Marine Corps Veterans – Daddy and his Good Officer’s Wife
And then Doug went into the hospital for the last time. As I moved into my role as psychopomp, the garden boiled in the wet heat. And then it was overrun with weeds. And then the lawnmower broke. And then I was grieving.
The garden is a mess. A passerby (if I had passerbys) would swear it’s been neglected for decades.
I’m hoping the weather holds for the rest of this Veteran’s Day weekend. I could do some serious cleanup, weeding, this-and-that’s and have a garden ready for frolicking come March. Last year was the first spring I was able to just leap into planting mode without having to spend on weeks on winter clean up. I’m hoping for a repeat.
Petunias in November!
It’s been abnormally warm. I found blooming petunias today as well as a climbing hydrangea with buds. It’s too much to hope that this weather will hold for long, but I’m enjoying it. My serotonin levels are enjoying it and I’m pretty sure my Vitamin D got topped off today.
Four months. I can hang on until then. Happy Veteran’s Day Weekend, y’all.
The Berry Berry Sweet Dog is my new-to-me Shih Tzu although I object to the wording of that as he is not my possession, but my roommate.
I hadn’t expected to get another dog so soon, but life had other ideas.
The Beautiful Babette was mostly Shih Tzu. I’ve forgotten the details of her story, but I have always regarded her as a rescue. She arrived at my house after spending a short time at a friend’s. At the time, I had two other dogs, affectionately dubbed “The Toddlers,” that sucked up all the attention in the room. Babette was in the background, thankful for any attention she got, and as sweet as a dog could possibly be.
When I got Babette , the vet estimated her age between six and eight. By the time Chef Boy ‘R Mine took The Toddlers to live with him, Babette was an aging beauty who got sweeter with every passing day.
My mother ran Doggie Daycare as she hated the idea of Babette rattling around the barn alone. When Doug came to live with me, Babette left Doggie Daycare to be with him with the occasional forays to Grandma’s house – particularly on the days she snuck under the fence.
Snoozy Babette
Babette began going downhill quickly before Doug’s death. She reached the point where her back legs didn’t work so well, her vision was poor and her hearing was beginning to go. I think she knew I needed her and hung on. Frequently while Doug was in the hospital, I would run home to see if she was still breathing. She hung on another three and half months after Doug’s death.
I had vowed that I would not allow her to feel any pain and would take her to the vet for the last great journey of life. I promised her. And I kept that promise. On October 3rd, Babette went to sleep for the last time.
My mother and I buried her in the garden near the spot in the fence that she used to do her Houdini act. It was sad and I mourned her. Simultaneously, I both missed having a dog and loved not having a dog to take care of, particularly an elderly dog who couldn’t really walk any longer.
Berry Berry Sweet Dog
In the goofiness that is my life, the picture of a dog appeared on my Facebook exactly two weeks after Babette’s death. I was stunned. The dog could have been Babette. The caption stated he was 6 or 7 and had been owner surrendered to the local kill shelter.
Of course I went down there and, of course, I was horrified. And, of course, I didn’t leave him there. He’d been surrendered the same day Babette died.
I found him with a bad case of kennel cough, an upper respiratory infection, and two infected ears. He also has cataracts and is probably deaf. He’s also 11, not 6 or 7. The vet bills to get him well are mounting and he still won’t eat. He’s lost more than a pound since I’ve had him and he doesn’t weight a whole lot of pounds. Right now, he’s topping off at a whopping six pounds. I’m worried about him.
Snoozy Berry
He might be grieving himself. His owner took him there as her arthritis had become debilitating and she couldn’t take care of him. I’m sure she tried to find someone to take him, but who wants a nearly blind, maybe deaf dog that’s 11? Me, that’s who.
He’s exquisitely well-trained although the vet tells me I haven’t seen his real personality yet as he’s too sick to be himself.
I wish he would eat.
The vet’s assistant told me her mother had sponsored him. She had been dropping off supplies to the shelter, noticed him and how sick he was, and she couldn’t stand it. She had to go out of town, but she sponsored him so he wouldn’t be killed before she could get back in town or be adopted by someone else.
Are you hearing Twilight Zone music yet?
I could have named him Rod Sterling. They were calling him Buddy at the shelter and he is so not a Buddy. He’s much too dignified and polite to bear a moniker Larry the Cable Guy would name his dog. So, what did I name him? Berry.
I named him Berry because one night I was cooing and talking baby talk to him and said, “You are a berry, berry sweet dog.” He gave me a kiss. My first and only Berry kiss thus far.
He’s a keeper, but I wish he would eat. I’m tired of fretting about him.
So. I’m sitting here rocking out to A.J. Roach (what a talent!) and feeling like myself more and more.
I like this song about his great-grandfather – Appalachian storytelling at its finest.
Blogging
I’m of a mind to tell stories these days. I haven’t felt this way in a long time.
To quote an old friend I nicknamed Guitarzan, “It’s been an ‘orrible year, just fucking ‘orrible.”
But I’m getting my sea legs on this new journey.
Y’all know me – the state of my house is a reflection of my well-being. I’m pleased to announce that the house is getting tamed. I’ve made much progress in the past couple of weeks. The study is functional, plastic bins are getting emptied, junk is being dispatched and stuff hung on the wall. The house has been in a state of chaos for so long that I am just loving the return of the Barn Wa.
I’m rocking out to A.J. on the new stereo receiver. Some low life stole mine during one of Doug’s hospitalizations. Listening to stuff on a boom box is Just Not The Same. I need it loud. I need strong stereo definition. I need the walls to vibrate. (I am an old woman with cataracts and hearing loss.)
Onkyo — Needlessly Complicated
The music is so good. And I’m at complete peace in this moment. True Confessions: I’m drinking wine from the Dollar General. I’ve surely sunk to a new low because this $3.85 Cabernet tastes wonderful. I’m planning on restocking the wine rack with it.
The Berry Berry Sweet dog (new to me) is snoozing on the stack of pillows oblivious to the ear deafening music. I’m now convinced he’s deaf as well as mostly blind. Perhaps, I should have named him Keller. In any event, that’s a story for another day. Such a story needs a proper telling.
I was asked to critique a novella for a friend (hi Mark!) The process of reading critically and reading something new and reading something written by a friend has made me long to get back to my writing. I haven’t written anything serious in years. I can’t remember who said it, but somebody famous said they hated writing, but loved having written. I love all of it, but it takes tremendous amounts of time and energy – both of which have been in short supply. Right now, I’ll have to be content with the blog which I really missed. I think I need to do this. It keeps me sane. (And we know that’s not something to be taken lightly.)
Berry Berry Sweet Dog
I was telling a friend the other day that Doug’s death had the blessing of making me realize how loved I was by him and by others. The support and patience given to me has not been received carelessly. I get teary-eyed and lost for words when I try to talk about what it has meant to me.
I just made the mistake, maybe, of looking at pictures of Doug. This is not how it was supposed to be. Nothing about the past few years was how it was supposed to be. And yet, here we are. Or here I am. Using the singular pronoun rather than the plural flays my soul some days. Today is one of them. I like being an I, but I also liked being a We. Now, I’m just an I and I miss the We.
Now Clapton is on the box. Some of you will say, “So, what’s new?” But, I haven’t listened to my man for probably a year. It’s just made my heart hurt to much. Listening to “Have You Ever Loved a Woman” is breaking my heart. And with that, I’m going to drink cheap wine and reminisce.
This is not the first time I’ve lost someone I loved deeply.
It’s not the first time I’ve lost someone after a long illness.
It is the first time, I’ve lost someone who lived with me and someone this close to me.
I knew through both the information the doctors provided and seeing Doug every day that we were in the end days. In a sense, I began grieving in January when I got called to the ICU to make end-of-life decisions. He was nicknamed Miracle Man long before that episode because he kept surviving that which they thought he wouldn’t. Perhaps it was denial, but in January I thought Miracle Man would make an appearance. And he did.
This time, no.
With strong emotion, I must write. Even with trivial things, I don’t know what I think until I pound a keyboard.
I haven’t wanted to think.
The longer I haven’t thought, the more antsy and ADD and incoherent I’ve gotten. I put off writing his obituary until I absolutely had to and that kept me together. It was so important to get it right and polished. This writing just has to be. It can be rough and raw, but like his obituary it has to be honest.
No, I’m not going to present the entire brain download here.
The past three years and the illnesses contained within them took the Doug I knew. They took the me I knew too.
Beginning in January, I entered, I think, the anger stage of grief. I was angry with him and with me and with the doctors and with the existence of bone marrow transplants and with the everyday inconveniences of normal life. The little shit really got to me. With everything going on, did we really need a home remodeling project that went to hell? Did we need screwed up direct deposits, car problems, and a broken pipe in the ceiling of the laundry room. And me, who has always loved the “don’t sweat the small stuff and it’s all small stuff” slogan, despite my inability to keep small stuff from aggravating me. When it counted, when there was HUGE BIG SHIT going on, the little stuff got to me.
And just when I would be ready to burst into a ball of flaming wrath wreaking havoc on everything around me, he’d end up back in the hospital and my priorities would line up properly again. I so wish I could have kept them lined up all the time. I so wish I could tell him I’m sorry for letting the little shit get in the way. I wish I could do it over.
The angry thing was hard on me. Generally speaking, I have problems with processing anger. Generally speaking, I don’t yell. Instead, I get very, very quiet. I turn it inward which is a five-star recipe for depression.
But nope. This was the most sustained, external, loud angry episode of my life. It scared me. I’m sure it scared him. I haven’t had any experience with this kind of anger. I was smart about it. I plopped my butt into a therapist’s office and she’s a good one. I was getting a grip on it, getting it under control, finding some balance when all hell broke loose again and we were back in the intensive care unit.
I’m one of those people who are very, very good in a crisis. When the Titanic is sinking, I’m the one you want. It’s not something I have to think about, it just happens. There’s a preternatural calm that descends and I go into information gathering and nurturing mode.
Doug’s final days were as calm and bittersweet as I could shape them.
Through it, folks kept asking how I was doing and I would respond with, “Fine.” And I really was. I was in the calm in the center of the storm. I have said for some time that I would not choose to live life the way he was forced to live it. I was ready, for his sake, to let him go. People would impress upon me the necessity of taking care of me, expressing my feelings, and all the other wise advice such a situation requires. I told them I was fine. I also told them I would fall apart when it was all over – well after everyone else was picking up the pieces and getting on with life. I expected that time to arrive later this week or possibly next week.
I’m sure my calm composure puzzled some folks.
Yesterday, I went to pieces. The catalyst, I think, was trying to choose a birthday card for my father’s 75th birthday. I didn’t have much trouble choosing his card, but it summoned thoughts about the agony Doug’s daughter must have gone through choosing his Father’s Day card. A task she did on Saturday in full knowledge that his days left were few.
I did manage to get out of the retail establishment I was in (card purchased) and home, before the dam collapsed.
Shortly after Doug’s death, my mother and a good friend came to my house primarily to clean so Doug’s daughter could have a place a little more nurturing to grieve. They also put away the medical equipment, tubing, medications, bandages and all the overt signs of Doug living a life he didn’t want and that nobody who loved him would have wanted for him. That act of kindness. . .I’ll never have the words to convey my appreciation.
We did leave the motel we’d spent precious little time in and came here. We had a good time, of sorts. In the garden and over wine, we talked long into the night, telling stories and talking about anthropology. We’d talk of funeral plans and estate matters and somehow segue into topics having nothing to do with Doug. By the time we went to bed, we were friends and we’d made most of the important decisions.
It was good and it was healing, but just as important, Doug would so have loved listening to us ramble like only two talkative women can. I’ve never spent a lot of time with his daughter and, when I did, I stayed in the background (or tried to) so she and her dad could have time together. I’ve fallen quite in love with her, the woman he considered his greatest accomplishment.
Also, I’ve had occasion to fall wildly back in love with Doug this past week. Don’t interpret that wrong. I have loved him. I’m talking about that giddy, in-love, hormonal rush that accompanies the beginning of a good relationship.
Never saw that coming.
Grief is personal. It’s been broken into 5 stages and it’s said we all experience all 5 in varying order of varying duration for each stage. Maybe I missed it, but I don’t remember the falling-wildly-in-love one.
Ours was an unconventional love story which I guess could probably go without saying – what with both of us being pretty unconventional people. We were very different in some core respects, but it mostly worked.
I am, really I am, glad that he is no longer struggling with the loss of the kind of life he wanted to live. The degradation of his body and his mind caused him great sorrow.
But I am really going to miss him. This is, perhaps, the cruelest form of unrequited love.
Doug and I didn’t have a song. However, my obsession with Clapton bled over into our relationship. He humored me, at times, but then he began embracing some of the songs for himself. One, in particular, astonished him in terms of the effect it had on him.
While he still lived in Boston and before he was diagnosed with leukemia, I had sent him a mixed-cd of songs I liked including Clapton’s River of Tears. He told me later that he’d been driving when he heard it and had to pull over. I don’t know where he was, exactly, but I envision him near the Charles River.
He told me he’d been happy when he popped the cd in. He told me he couldn’t understand the effect of the song upon him, but that he experienced the same effect in varying intensity every time he listened to it. Music routinely messes with my emotions, which is why I’m not listening to anything right now, but he boggled at the effect of that song upon him regardless of his mood. He was not a man to boggle. He couldn’t really describe the nature of the tears the song provoked other than cathartic.
I’m pretty sure River of Tears is about the death of Clapton’s very young son – a grief I don’t even want to try and imagine. The song used to make me routinely cry. After repeated hearings, I got to where it just made me reflective and teary. It often makes me pick up the phone and call my own son who was born roughly about the same time as Clapton’s. I would also, some times, pick up the phone and call Doug. Most of all, I would just listen to it, remember those I had lost, and allow the cathartic effect to remind me that love doesn’t end when a life does or even when a relationship runs its course. The song also reminds me that we do survive the grief and, with effort, can transform it into something beautiful to be shared.
In Doug’s obituary, I wrote, “He loved travel, reading, Mexican food, lobster, a well-told tale, and the anonymous donor that allowed him to live long enough to see his daughter graduate from Notre Dame, beginning her own career in anthropology.” He also loved me and I’m better for it.
Some of you who love me may read this and grow concerned. I am not fine. I am grieving and I’m doing it the way the process has decreed I need to do it. But I am not a complete mess, I am not inconsolable. I’m at the stage most folks were at last Tuesday. I will be okay. The outpouring of love, concern, and stories about Doug this past week have and will sustain me. The fact that I’m wildly in-love with Douglas B. Hanson right now is a very good thing. (If weird.)
Imagine if you will that the acres surrounding my barn exploded into a lengthy mountain music version of the Hallelujah chorus. That was this past spring. Imagine now, piles of leaves waist high being mulched with a lawn mower. Can you hear the closing strains of those Hallelujahs as they shelter the plants for the winter under a blanket of leaf mulch. Yes, the wheel turns.
W. Va. Fur and Root 